Biography

With his blowtorch poetry, anti-authoritarian politics and general lack of tact with the volume of his voice, East London-based Captain of the Rant has quickly established himself in the punk community and poetry circuit as a formidable performer. Whenever he can't find a gig, he will often just stand outside venues, wait for the unsuspecting audience to exit and recite to them. Although, given the British weather, he mostly prefers to play inside.

Every show unleashes energy, wit, fury, chair clambering, shouting and encourages excessive drinking. He laces each poem with a uniquely strange sense of humour and socio-political commentary, while never forgetting that watching a man jump around like a hyperactive monkey while reciting reasonably serious poetry is itself quite amusing.

He has now teamed up with the mysterious, brilliant musician Hair Explosion for their album 'Captain of the Rant Fights Hair Explosion'... it will be proper good, when we finally get round to recording all the tracks.

Captain of the Rant is happy to play formal poetry nights, squats, punk gigs, open mic nights, house shows, parties... anywhere.

Book him.

Samples

BATTLE CRY OF THE SEXES
I’m leafing through the gardening magazine
After gardening magazine
In the waiting room
Until my eyes lock and zoom
On the one thing I’ve been looking for
Casually my greasy paw slides over
Making sure no one’s watching
I make the snatch, good and clean
And casually I put on my lap
A women’s magazine
Waiting rooms are the only chance I get
For a vague insight into the female mind
And I admit
It’s an addiction
I need my hit
Flicking through problem pages, fascinated
And at the same time thinking:
“Do women actually read this shit?”
Then watching Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp
Swim dimly into my memory
And feel a twinge of jealousy
As I rub a guilty hand over my beer belly
Knowing that it cost more than going to the gym
Then I understand how detachment from your own body
And fantasy about an imagined ideal
Is necessary in order to feel
Something close to happiness
In a world where we’re made to feel dissatisifed
Because we’re not beautiful
But fuck that
It’s time to take a time out
So guys hide behind
FHM’s brazen brawn and lies
Allies in a protest against progress
Because it’ll mean they’ll have to rely
On their personalities for a change
And girls hide behind
An obsession over not eating too many pies
But I love a woman who loves her food with a passion
And devours life too because she knows it’s on ration
Because she’ll make me see that we’re all able
To refuse what’s been put on the table


A war’s been started
Masquerading as a game
Priorities getting warped
As we’re taught that the opposite sex
Is an animal to be caught
And tamed
Our emotions are reigned in
And smothered by the din
Of their disguised battle cry
And here’s mine:
Dear Deadrie
Why don’t you just fuck off and die?
Because I’m fucking bored of the goss
Smothered in gloss
And all the made up stories about people shagging their boss
It’s cost us a massive loss
And the uncrossable chasm you’ve help manufacture
Has left us as fractured in this age
As trampled down problem page
or Adam’s ribcage
We’re left alone, groping in the dark
For the tissue and the remote
As the vinegar stroke smote
The smoke that those sprawled, moaning actors
Caused in our loins
As we try kind of sex
That might make us connected and joined
RIP Ballard
You warned us where we were headed
Because we’ve been divided
And sold
And told it’s our fault
From a vault of holy books and
Being scared into how to look
So let’s crank up Bikini Kill
Set light to that magazine subscription bill
And take those pages
Of the self-appointed sages
And build a huge fucking bonfire
A funeral pyre on the high street
Where we can dance and drink and fuck to an equal beat


SEVEN YEARS
(For RB)
It’d been seven years
Seven fucking years
And between when you left and came back
There’d been flirtations with meeting up
Quick snatched chats on MSN
But I thought, nah, this is the end
Another friendship gone
Time to move on
Because anything rooted in rootless nostalgia
Is doomed from the start
All sugar and violins
With no muscle or heart
And I remember the afternoon of your depart
Your eyes
Glued to the train window
Shot through
With a sad bulging and blue
And I imagine
The ticket back to the States
Wet from sweat in your hand
And we all waved
Stood there, waved and waved
The painful awkwardness saved
By your train pulling away
With an ugly metallic creek

Over the seven years
Seven fucking years
I get little trickles of shifts in your life
Through friends and friends of friends
You’ve got a long term boyfriend
Then a fiancée
Then you’re pregnant
Then you’re married
The baby’s called Liam

These all arrive as tiny muffled bombs
That I defuse in the margins of my brain
Because I've got nothing but disdain
For that kind of way
All paid up
Cuddy and settled
Tagged with sickening pet names
Like “monkey” and “petal”
And just the words “coffee morning”
Dissolve my mettle
Make me want to take a shitload of pills
And have me running, raving, screaming for the hills
A shell devoid of thrills
That's exactly what they want

You, blunted at the edges
Viewing existence as tiny steps
An insistence on living life like a pet
Kept in line
Like stopped clocks kidded into thinking
They’re still keeping time
Because I hear you’re serving coffee at Costa
And I think it’ll cost ya
Your whole future
And I’ve got images of you serving lattes to dickheads
With a sweaty forehead
And a forced smile
And I think you’re worth more
Than a billion how are yous
Would you like anything elses
And thankyous

But I’m still struggling for independence
Still trying to fit the pieces together
Still a bit naïve
Still trying to make sense
Still dressing like a teenager
Still talking like Peter Pan just tripped over Chomsky
But the rent's piling on
And HSBC still have me by the balls
Still too often making that pathetic phone call:
“Alright Mum, can I borrow some money?”
And I have the nerve
To think of your life being gift wrapped
but who's the one who's really trapped?

Seven years
Seven fucking years
And I admit
I was originally tempted down to meet you
By the promise of free food and booze at Wagamama’s
Because our friend works there
And I’m fucking skint
But
I see you
And become a mess of garbled words
Waterlogged with clichés
Because you’ve got that same bounce
Same glow
Same shine
And you hug me and it still feels like a billion pillows
But really though
As we chat I feel all the stitches I sowed undo
Because you talk about all the waiting you've had to do
That love for someone else sometimes holds you back
And I realise that a lack of compromise
Sometimes leaves you stranded, empty handed
On an island of your own making

I’m lucky enough not to have wait a single second
Lucky enough not to have reality really beckon
No babies, no marriage
No responsibility
Time to sit around and talk punk rock, veganism and anarchy
Life frozen
Posing for action
Hands out for the catching
Ratching it up
So still but so assured...
But that's time that most people can’t afford
I remember the cut of a cord
And think of my mum:
She was moored with two growing boys on her own
Maybe it’s not what she really wanted
But people get older and some things fall out of range
Their parameters change
Stupid real life gets in the way
Missed opportunities
Missed hopes
Missed dreams
Sit on the waiting pile
A mile from our concerns
Feeling the breath on the back of your neck from your boss
And sometimes it's best to just burn your losses

And I'm no a hippy
I'm not saying go with the flow
Camp in a field, rub some stones
And get rid of your negative energy
Or any of that shite
And I'm not saying some things aren't worth the fight
But just for a moment respect that
Sometimes free will is a luxury
And reflect on the fact that
Choices aren't always right
And just when you think you've got
Your shit down tight
The ceiling might just cave in
And with all your might
You've got to scramble out
To reach the daylight

Sitting still
Doing nothing but reading
Watching
And rambling
Is never a gamble
Never a risk
But putting your life on hold for someone that you love
Putting your life on the line for something you believe
To look at the explosion straight in the eye with a blackened face
That takes balls

She dusts her bleeding knees off after every fall
And still keeps going
With her, there's no “shouldn'ts” no “can'ts”
And she taught me what it really means
To take a chance

LINGERS

On coffee smudged
and tobacco stained fingers
the smell of you lingers.

The catchy ad jingle of
your drunken laugh being helped
up the stairs by an empty echo.

Glitter sparkled
pink scarf crumpled carpet.
Two empty plates and

abandoned toast crumbs.
Two crimson stained wine glasses
and snowywhite powder

Speckled table.
Messed bed.
Punk posters.

Memories of moans
bounce the walls.
Tightening fingerprints

tattoo skin.
The stroke
and the sweat

and the movement
and the empty head
and the sigh.

Now bloodless
empty
gone.

Everything about you
lingers.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

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